Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ace
The Greek hasn't slept.
I can tell because when I walk into the tack room at the crack of dawn, coffee in one hand, rope in the other, his eyes are bloodshot and darting.
He's been zip-tied to the saddle rack all night, sitting on the cold concrete with his back against the wall and his wrists turning purple above the restraints.
“Paulie, you’re good to go,” I tell him.
He scuttles off, probably to catch some rest after watching this sack of shit all night.
I pull up a hay bale and sit across from him, taking a slow sip of my coffee.
"Mornin'," I say.
He doesn't respond.
"Let me save us both some time." I place the coffee on the floor and rest my elbows on my knees.
"I already know the Greeks have bought into Ranch 42.
I know you've kept Carson's hands on payroll because not one of you knows how to run a cattle operation.
You couldn't tell the difference between a heifer and a gate post. So you bought the land and kept the labor. Smart enough."
I’m half bluffing. We’re gonna find out exactly what’s happening behind the scenes.
"What I don't know," I continue, "is why.
Ranch 42 is a shit spread on a good day.
Bad land, worse management, and it's stuck between two properties owned by people who will burn you alive if you look at them sideways.
You've already seen the evidence of that.
" I nod toward the door. "So why here? Why Arizona?
Why wedge yourselves between the Sterlings and the Lawsons when there are a thousand easier places to set up? "
He stares at the floor. His jaw works. I can see him weighing it. What keeps him alive, what gets him killed. I’d guess this guy isn’t high-ranking in the Greek setup. Which is very good for us.
"Clock's ticking," I tell him. "And Brutus hasn't had breakfast. He’s going to be pissed as fuck."
That does it.
"There was a problem," he says. "In Los Angeles."
"What kind of problem?"
He swallows. "A man was killed. One of the Italians. High up. A brother of the Milano family."
My blood goes still. A brother. They have fucked up. Enzo doesn’t have a set-up in LA yet. Hence why we have this fuckin’ Greek issue.
But they have an enemy. Which could go one of two ways for us.
"Your people killed him," I say. Not a question.
He nods.
"And now the Italians want blood?"
Another nod.
"So you're running. You killed a Milano, and now you're hiding in Arizona because LA got too hot. Don’t you stay to fight wars on your territory?” I scoff.
And this is why they won’t last the year here in Arizona.
"Not hiding." He shakes his head. "Building. Nikos wants in. With yours. He wants protection. Partnership. Build a new army here, far from the Italians, and then take Los Angeles back."
I let that settle.
They want in with Enzo. They think they can buy their way into our network by setting up camp in our backyard, building an army on our doorstep, and using our infrastructure to launch a war against the Milanos.
Without asking.
Without permission.
Without understanding that the men who run this territory don't take meetings.
I thought they’d learn their lesson after trying to frame Hunter for murder and turning our own brother against us.
They know I murdered Beau. My own damn brother with my hands. And they still want to push us?
"Who's running the show at Ranch 42?" I ask. "Not your rotation. The man in charge."
He hesitates. "Stefanos. Niko's brother. He’s been working back home to build."
His face goes pale. Paler than it already was, because he’s realized he’s yapped too much to ever return to them.
"How many men, total?" I ask.
"More come and go. Trucks. At night. I don't know the full number. Maybe fifteen. Maybe twenty. They are building. Every week, more arrive."
Twenty men. Armed. Dug into a ranch two valleys from where my nephew sleeps.
I stand. "Thank you."
"What happens to me?"
I look at him over my shoulder, he can’t be much younger than me. "That depends on my brother. But you've been helpful. That counts."
I walk out into the morning sun. The ranch is waking up. The horses calling from the paddocks, Lola's cooking drifting from the main house, Wyatt's laughter carrying from somewhere near the round pen.
This is what we're protecting. What I’d lay down my life for. Family.
I pull out my phone and call Hunter.
"He talked. The Greeks killed a Milano in LA, a brother.
That's why they're here. LA got too hot, so they bought Ranch 42 as a staging ground.
They want in with Enzo. They're trying to build an army to take back Los Angeles from the Italians. So they’re bringing in Greeks here, putting pressure on us to fold so we work with them. "
Silence.
"Fuckin' Greek restaurant. I’ll call in Enzo, see how he wants us to play this. If it’s an LA territory war, it ain’t our issue. But if they’re going to make a run for our land, then it fuckin’ is," Hunter mutters.
"You keep saying that Greek restaurant thing. What does it mean?"
"Nothing. Don't worry about it." His voice shifts. "Don't touch the Greek again. I'm sending Romeo for the phone data. I need to make calls."
"Copy."
"This stays between us and Colt. Nobody else."
"Understood. Jett? You gave him a big job."
He chuckles.
“Let’s see what he does with the task first.”
I hang up, leaning against the barn wall. The sun is warm on my face, and for a second, I let myself just breathe. I don’t get a chance to do that much. Just enjoy the peace.
Then Jett's truck comes tearing up the drive, dust billowing behind it, horn blaring, country music rattling the windows. He skids to a stop in front of me. The window rolls down.
He's wearing sunglasses, a cowboy hat, and for some reason, the most offensive shirt my eyes have ever seen.
"Get in, dick face. We're going kidnapping."
I stare at him, my brain catching up with what I’m looking at. "What the fuck are you wearing?"
He looks down at the shirt. Bright orange. Palm trees. Flamingos. "What? It's my undercover look."
"Undercover as what? A divorced dad at a pool party?"
"It's called blending in, Ace. I'm meeting this reporter at a diner. I can't show up looking like…" He gestures at me. At my hat, my boots, my belt buckle, my entire existence. "Like that. I'll spook them."
I’d love to look inside his brain and see what is really going on in there.
"Jett, you're six-three, covered in scars, and you've got a black eye from the bar fight. No shirt on earth is saving you. If anything, it’s going to get more attention or possibly a psych evaluation."
He adjusts his sunglasses. "Are you coming or not?"
I shake my head. "Can't. Colt's got a shipment coming in an hour. Guns. I told him I'd meet him at the south drop."
Jett's face shifts. The grin stays, but his eyes sharpen.
He knows what the shipments mean. They're the backbone of the operation, the product moving through our territory under Enzo's flag, distributed through channels that don't exist on paper, protected by men who don't exist on record.
My job is logistics. Making sure the right crates get to the right trucks and the wrong people don't see any of it.
To anyone else, it just looks like our ranch bought some new prized mares.
"How big?" he asks.
"Big enough that Colt asked for help."
He nods. The joking drops for half a second. "Alright. I'll handle the reporter solo. Shouldn't take long. Just gotta pull up, look scary, throw a bag over their head. The usual."
"You've done this before?"
"Once. In college."
"You didn't go to college."
"Exactly. So imagine how well it went without training." He revs the engine. "I'll have them at the barn by one. Come by after your shipment? Help me put the fear of Sterling in them?"
"I'll be there." I pause.
“You got a name for this reporter?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. They’ve been given my number; they’ll text me with their table number.”
I shake my head. I guess Hunter didn’t want Jett getting confused with names or faces. We just have to hope he can count today.
He salutes. "Wish me luck."
"Jett."
"Yeah?"
There's a gnawing feeling in my gut.
"Don't hurt them. Hunter said bring them in. Not bring them in pieces," I tell him, dead serious.
He waves a hand. "Relax. I'm a professional."
"You're wearing a flamingo shirt."
"A professional in disguise. Who would guess a guy with a fuckin’ flamingo on their shirt is going to kidnap them in broad daylight?"
I run a hand over my face. You can’t argue with that logic, I suppose.
“Okay, well, don’t get arrested, Jett.”
He salutes me and floors it. The truck fishtails on the gravel, spraying dirt across the barn wall, and disappears down the drive.
I watch the dust settle.
My cousin is about to kidnap a reporter in a flamingo shirt.
My brother is on the phone with God knows who, putting together a response to a Greek army building in our backyard.
And I'm about to go help move enough firepower to arm a small country through the back roads of Arizona in broad daylight.
Just another Tuesday on Sterling Ranch.